When you arrived in New York in the late 1970s,
The city was almost shattered.
The Bronx aflame, Brooklyn in tatters.
The rush-hour bridges choked with cars.
Even in full sun, I cabbed around the park.
But you saw incipience in that grittiness,
Here, at last: boys, concupiscence, authenticity.
Greenwich and the Studio, pouring out light,
Which you, so sweetly, cupped across the city.
And then you were gone, like every-other man.
Still, your graffiti on my skin. The warmth of your hands.